Laura turned at the door. “Yes, Aunt Gertrude?”
“I trust we will rub along well together. But I will never accept you settling into a spinster’s life. Do you think you will be independent? Even if you plan to take up some cause, your opinion will seldom be considered.” She glowered. “And when we return to London, I shall put it about that you are to inherit my entire fortune when I die.”
Laura gasped. “Aunt, no! You must not deny Robert his rightful inheritance.”
“Your brother inherited everything from your parent—the estate, the lands, the furniture and paintings, the horses and carriages. Even your mother’s jewelry.” She sighed. “Very well, but when I’m gone, your inheritance will support you in the future if no husband arises. I still hope to see a gentleman court you with a view to marriage before you get any older.”
Laura clutched Tibby’s warm body to her chest. “I shall try never to be a nuisance, Aunt. Is there is anything you wish me to do for you?” She hated the idea of some gentleman courting her. He would not hold a candle to Debnam, and the thought of having to go through that again after the strain of refusing Edward exhausted her.
“You can bring my embroidery bag down when you come.” Aunt Gertrude put on her spectacles and picked up a magazine.
Laura’s cheeks were maddeningly wet when she reached her room. She took a handkerchief from the drawer, wiped her eyes, then sank onto the bed with Tibby on her lap. It was too late to change her mind. Not that she would. It wasn’t as if any other viable option had presented itself.
She tried to look on the bright side. Aunt Gertrude would permit her to go about London if a maid accompanied her. There were so many places Laura wasn’t able to see during the Season. Her time there was always so rushed. Buoyed at the thought of visiting Hatchards bookshop in Piccadilly, the lending library, and the Greek and Egyptian exhibitions at the museum, she put Tibby down on the bed and moved away. The cat mewed a protest. “It’s your fault, Tibby. You shouldn’t have hissed at Beau. And after he wagged his tail, too.” She went to find Aunt Gertrude’s embroidery.
*
Brendan spent thenext sennight searching through his father’s papers and his mother’s letters for something which might point to their murders. He found nothing and, tiring of being indoors, drove to Chichester to visit the livestock markets and inspect cattle for the home farm.
A fine, old cathedral graced Chichester, lending it an air of importance the small town might not otherwise have had. The summer sun burned hot overhead, while a blessedly cool breeze whipped through the streets, carrying the salty tang of the sea.
Impressed with the Friesian cows, Brendan bid successfully at auction and afterward stopped for luncheon at the Royal Oak Inn. While eating his bread, ham, and cheese, his thoughts turned to Uncle Simon, Gaylord’s older brother. He had lost his life in this town some twenty years ago, stabbed to death in the lane behind the tavern. They’d never found his murderer. Brendan didn’t remember Simon well, only a vague image of a fair-haired man who’d seemed big and jolly to the Brendan still in short trousers. But he remembered how distressed his mother had been at his death. She had loved her brother.
Finishing the last of his meal, Brendan walked down the street to the Nag’s Head tavern. He went inside the old black-and-white Tudor building, ordered an ale, and asked to speak to the proprietor, although he held little hope of learning anything about Simon’s murder after all this time.
Tom Lance, the short, rotund tavern owner, scratched his head. “Naturally, I know all about the murder which took place behind this inn. It has become like folklore. An important personage as he was. Something to do with smuggling, wasn’t it? But beyond that, I cannot help you, milord. I purchased the inn six years ago. Didn’t live ’round here before then.”
“Could any of your servants have worked here twenty years ago?”
Tom shook his head. “Not a one.”
Brendan left the tavern to return to his curricle and drive home but changed his mind and walked down beside the inn to the laneway behind.
A horse stood tied to a post awaiting its owner. But the area offered no clue as to Simon’s demise. Brendan hadn’t expected it to. Across the lane, in a farrier’s shop, the sound of a hammer striking lead rang out. Brendan walked over and entered a blast of heat.
An enormous, dark-haired man somewhere in middle age bent over a roaring fire. Looking like the god Prometheus, his muscled arms flexing, he hammered an iron horseshoe over an anvil, bending it as if made of tin. The hot air reeked of sweat.
“Got a minute, sir?” Brendan asked him.
The farrier looked up. His gaze took in Brendan’s coat to his top boots. Still holding his heavy hammer, he bowed his head. “Johnson, milord. Need a horse shod? I won’t be long. If you’ll wait outside.” He chuckled. “Hot as hell in here today.”
“No. I am after information about the murder which took place in this lane, close to twenty years ago. Would you have been in business back then?
Johnson’s dark eyes widened. “Well, yes. My father’s business it was then, but I was here, not much more than a lad. Long time ago now.”
“Might you have witnessed it?”
“As I locked up for my father, I saw two men fighting over behind the inn,” he said. “I remember admiring their horses. Thoroughbreds, they was.” He wiped the sweat from his brow with a beefy forearm. “Not unusual for drunks and thieves to get into a fight, as there’s gambling in the tavern. So I left them to it. But when I returned at cock’s crow, there he was, lying dead as yesterday’s mutton. Stabbed through the heart. Both horses were gone. Stolen, more like. One, a fine, young chestnut with unusual markings had three white feet, and a white patch on his head in the shape of a crown.” He shook his head. “Pity.”
“Indeed.” Brendan gestured for him to go on.
“A big fuss erupted once they found out the man was the son of a lord. The constable fetched the magistrate. I couldn’t tell ’em anything useful. Came out later at the inquest that Mr. Simon Mather had been friendly with a smuggler from these parts, and they thought it likely he’d got offside with ’im. But that notion didn’t sit well with me.”
“Why not?”
“Them smugglers are a stealthy lot. Don’t like to draw attention to themselves. There’s those around here who support ’em too.” He took several more giant bashes at the horseshoe. Sparks flew and the deafening noise filled the small building. The racket didn’t seem to bother him, but Brendan stepped back a pace, resisting the urge to block his ears.
Johnson examined his handiwork. Satisfied, he turned to Brendan. “And to murder a lord? They’d swing for that sure enough. A smuggler would choose somewhere quiet, if you know what I mean, milord.” He winked. “No, this was a furious fight. A lot of passion in it. Didn’t see a knife, though, or I might have intervened. Knocked their heads together. I was a big youth even then.” He looked rueful. “The young lord might be alive today.”
